run
by all the lost souls
Summary: Because ever since she looked up and locked eyes with him, her gray irises subdued and thoughtful, his heart's been stuck on reverse, and everything's just so easy in the past tense.


drabble-ish. haymitch/maysilee. this is my first Hunger Games fanfic; the books have been my favourites ever since I read them, but I never really thought of writing ff for it. so; title is from the snow patrol song, and enjoy.

* * *

_I'll sing it one last time for you_  
_Then we really have to go_  
_You've been the only thing that's right_  
_In all I've done_  
-Snow Patrol, Run.

**.**

Haymitch Abernathy sits on a throne of desecrated lies.

Slumping in the hollowest of thrones, his heart beats in its cage, hollow and receding. His mind is dusted with glass, unforgiving and unrelenting. He will haunt your home and break your bones and never leave your soul alone, because that is who he is.

And then there was her, a mirror of kaleidoscopic antithesis, his very own somniphobic angel, so full of life and so fucking _pure._ Really, she's just an innocent stuck in a house of wolves, a cataclysm of who's and what's and why's, her soul a timeless jumble of locks and keys, (because it was just so much easier be lost than found, even if it's the reason we're always searching and rarely discovered,) And whenever he looks at her, his pulse races because he's

_ohsoscared_

of how she makes him feel, of how _damn beautiful_ those brightdangerousgray Seam eyes were, how she's all turned smiles and stolen glances, and her razor wit never fails to make him smile, (because really, he's not kidding when he says she's the only person who _can, _these days) but mostly how much it would _hurt_ when they came to take her away.

In short, (and fuck, he hates to admit it,) she _terrifies_ him.

**.**

So he sits, shattered bottles of crimson propped against his feet as he skims the precipice of self-hatred and denial, —he's just so fucking_repulsed_ but what he's become—, those stupid words spinning around his head, emptymeaninglessechoes slipping through the ghost train and leaving a bitter taste on the roof of his mouth—

"Let the 50th Hunger Games begin."

Because he knows that _afteris_always_before _and fairytales, they never have backstories, because she sacrificed herself for him and now those_stupiddamnpinkbirds_ fill his nightmares, images of speared beaks piercing her throat floating through the alcohol-induced bubble, repressing screams (hers) but not his. And he's so tired, so cold, slow, and _lost_. He looks around, but it's pointless because he's  
forgotten, in halls of steel and bone.

The President's ice-blue eyes lock on his dark ones as they drag him away. Snow's lips pull back in a malicious grin, his gnarled teeth dragging across his tongue as he promises that he will _pay for this, _taunting him to rise to the bait.

Haymitch, as always, has a profane retort dancing on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it and lowers his eyes, letting himself be dragged out of the room by his neck and locked in the basement, with the delicious company of his own shallow, twisted thoughts, and his _mother/brother/girlfriend's_ screams.

**.**

He _loves_ her.

The first time he acknowledges this is when he's crouching behind the same bush he's been spying on her from for the past one/two/three/four/maybe five(he's lost count) months, staring at her as she sits there, plucking the grass _straight out_ of the ground, _green_emerald_lively _grass. A drop lands on the freckles dancing on her delicate nose, which had always been remarked to be strangely Patrician, and she looks up at the clouds lining up the sky, the exact same hue as her eccentric kohl-lined irises. (And at this point he remembers that she's the kind of girl who only asks you over when its raining, just to make you lie there catching water dripping from the ceiling, and, despite everything, a smile leaks onto his face)

She looks up and **locks eyes** with him, and from then on he's stuck in

r e v e r s e.

**.**

It was so easy in the past tense.

* * *

this was horribly angsty, but concrit? :)


End file.
